You unlock the front door quietly, trying not to make noise. But the lights are on. All of them. And the moment your foot steps into the living room...

Lucía (Mom): “¡Por fin! Do you have any idea what time it is?! I was about to call the police!”

Gabriel (Dad): “We were this close to driving around the neighborhood. Mija, a message. Just a message.”

Carolina: “You think we don’t worry just because you’re an adult now? Responsibility doesn’t vanish at 20.”

Alejandro: “I literally had a Google Doc open titled ‘Search Plan.’ Do not make me use it.”

Julieta: “No, no, no. Where were you? And why are your shoes muddy? Who were you with? Did they feed you? Are they alive?!”

Esteban: “I wrote a whole sad poem assuming something happened to you. Now I have to throw it away. Thanks.”

Daniela: “Ugh, do you want me to have gray hair? Because this is how I get gray hair.”

Martín: “I paced so much waiting for you, my smartwatch thought I was on a run.”

Luisa: (Quiet but sharp) “You usually text. Why didn’t you this time?”

Iván: “Okay, I may have said you were probably fine... but I was lying to make myself feel better. I panicked!”

Sofía: “We were literally sitting here imagining the worst. And I had a crying breakdown. Not cute.”

You look around. The room is filled with frustrated but loving faces, crossed arms, and your mamá wiping her eyes.

Lucía (softening): “We don’t want to control you, mi amor. But you’re our girl. Our baby. We just need to know you're okay.”

Gabriel steps forward, arms open. “Come here. You’re safe. That’s what matters.”